To Treasure Life, and Not Let Go
by Unfoldeed
Summary: Altair investigates the city of Acre at night, and winds up in a grueling battle for his own survival. ((in which the author uses assassin's creed 1's lack of a day-night cycle to spin a barely canon-compliant narrative. x-post with ao3))
1. Chapter 1

A feather drifted across Altair's face, and he opened his eyes. The Acre bureau was silent, except for Jabal's snoring, and no movement could be seen but the shadow of birds on lifeless stone. Black-blue moonlight filtered through the closed screen above him. Altair climbed the bureau wall, slid the screen aside, and looked out at the city.

Tiny windows of flame yellow dotted each dark peak and valley of slate and brick. Smoke sputtered heavenward and mingled with the clouds. Altair spotted an eagle, only a black dot on a blacker sky, as it glided from one slender minaret to another.

He had always followed where the eagles flew. Now, in his midnight-woken impulsivity, he wanted to follow some more. Alas – the Creed discouraged traveling by night. To rely on darkness for protection is to risk mistaking the face of a target – or to invite the company of criminals, those who lack the discipline to operate in daylight….

He bowed his head, but his gaze bobbed up rebelliously toward the horizon. He had already broken the three tenets of the Creed, and had effectively redeemed himself thus far – with each name removed from the nine listed, Al Mualim had begun to approve of his work once more. Breaking an insignificant guideline would mean nothing in comparison.

The city stretched out before him, dark and endless, promising that not a soul would know. Altair pulled himself onto the rooftop. The air smelled thick with human activity, some scents jarring and others pleasant, and each new breath contained its own intriguing meld. He descended the nearest ladder, and from the instant his boots touched the ground, he became immersed in a foreign place, one as raw and unexplored as unpicked fruit.

Hours passed. Altair had crested rooftops and delved alleys with ease, as if the sun was shining directly overhead. He used his training to linger unnoticed and spy on the darkest kernels of Acre's populace – the gravediggers who carried on over their cart of death in hushed whispers, the streetwalkers whose French and English slang stood mercifully beyond his comprehension. He found himself imagining what knowledge was lost to every passing night, what helpful information might be gained for future missions, should he ever choose to explore again.

Another hour brought him to the city wall. The sky remained black, and had grown thicker with clouds. Until sunlight pierced the bureau windows, old Jabal was unlikely to wake up and continue his scribe work. Altair could afford a while longer, so he studied the wall, barely lit with braziers that puffed smoke. Where archers and gate guards seemed to proliferate through the day, only a sparse few remained. In their place swirled random groups of cloaked men and covered wagons, beggars picking over unattended corpses, and drunken crusaders searching for a place to rest, or maybe an extra bottle. From time to time, one of the guards might shuffle over to a passerby to ask questions, but a few exchanged coins would quiet them just as quickly. Altair traced the path of a particularly swift wagon-puller, passing the gate and the palisades beyond it. There was an aura about this quick-footed one, it gleamed _red_ in the darkness, and Altair was too curious to end his pursuit.

Instead, it was ended with the man turned, and threw a knife into Altair's chest.

The knife could not have cut through him so deeply. His robes were lined with leather padding and metal plates. Pulling the blade free, Altair noted blood on its tip – concerning only for the chance of infection – but another color had mingled into it, something dark and dull….

Poison.

What night remained passed by in flashes. Altair could see his four-fingered hand without its bracer, as it left a smear of blood on a foreign arm. He felt his hood torn from him, felt his exposed head hit some surface made of wood. Movement jarred his body, which refused to function as he willed it.

Some undefinable moments later, Altair woke to a foul, bitter paste as it was pressed down his throat. He bit, and felt his head slammed backwards into something solid.

"This is an _antidote_." Garbled English, ending in a word he didn't know. It was followed by a firm hand, which pushed his mouth shut until he finally swallowed. Altair could taste blood from a tear on his tongue. Had he bitten himself?

"Has Satan unhanded you, heathen?"

His mouth had been uncovered, but Altair failed to speak. Somewhere in the path from the thoughts to words, a blockage thwarted him. He pressed air through gritted teeth, altogether barely a groan. A second voice from further off spoke instead.

"It was the fever, William. You will see that the antidote prevents further convulsions."

Altair shut his eyes, and forgot his surroundings.

Author's Notes:

-my historical knowledge of this time period relies mostly on experience from the game. if i think i'm fucking up i obviously do research, but i'll probably still make little mistakes

-i couldn't find any evidence that altair is a fluent english speaker, so i took a guess that he only knows a bit. i could be wrong but i only have so much patience for combing through meta

-my goal isn't to break canon. these events are ideally an expansion on what could have happened in between the memory blocks that desmond actually experiences in-game

-yes more suffering is going to happen. no i don't plan on making it all better with fluff or anything like that later on

please comment on this work. tell me your thoughts on what you read or what you're hoping to see in future chapters. seeing responses kinda makes my day!


	2. Chapter 2

In Altair's dreams, a miserable old beggar with matted hair threw rocks at his head.

"A few coins! _Just_ a few coins!" Every sentence was punctuated with a fresh strike, another cold throb of discomfort.

"Ask Jabal at the bureau," he found himself answering. "If the wine hasn't managed to keep him unconscious past noon." Altair tried to move, but felt weighed down. Rocks had piled on top of him, pressing into his stomach.

"But he doesn't care!" The beggar keened in her harsh dialect, hurling another rock. "I'm going to starve, and you'll be dead _too_ by the time he wakes!"

The statement made Altair open his eyes, and one last impact forced him from the dream. The woman vanished into an empty floor; the imaginary rocks were replaced with a dark figure, real and looming, who stood with one foot planted on his stomach. The figure held a cane, and pressed it to Altair's temple with cruel, impatient force.

"Awaken, student." Arabic, and yet Altair had remembered hearing someone speak in English….

Another strike to his temple. Altair struck back, swiping hold of the cane and bucking free of the weight against him. He rolled up to a crouch, pulling the cane with him against the grip of his opponent. The figure was drawn forward, and Altair lunged to double the momentum of his fist as it _cracked_ across their jaw. A thin, hot streak of pain traced his forearm as he followed through with the punch, but it did nothing to hinder his attack.

The figure dropped on their back. As they struggled upright, Altair recognized their clothing: black, hooded robes befitting only a mentor of the Brotherhood. He drew back, horrified for an instant that Al Mualim himself stood across from him, but one clear look at the face beneath the hood revealed an entirely different person. Younger than Al Mualim, perhaps ten years Altair's senior, with black eyes and eerily discolored skin.

"Who are you?"

"I am a part of your Brotherhood, student," the stranger said. "I am a _leader_, in fact. But you have not heard of me, have you?"

Altair spared a glace at himself. He wore only his breeches, and his forearm dripped crimson. Where the attacker's knife had pierced his chest, only a scabbed line remained.

"I have not," Altair answered. "Nor do I believe your assertions." His eyes roamed the floor and walls, all stone, likely a crevice of some fortress. Most definitely underground, if the smell of dirt and mold was evidence enough.

"Of course you do not believe me. Why believe when your 'master' never spoke of me?"

Altair was tempted to turn and run. Perhaps there was a door behind him….

Altair was looking at the ceiling. He understood that he had fallen somehow, but retained no memory of it. He tried to leap upright, but only squirmed; his every movement was horrifyingly sluggish.

"William." The voice was above him now. "We will have to restrain him." English again.

Hours flashed by.

When Altair jerked awake, it was against the cold pressure of cuffs across his wrists and ankles. His vision swung from one corner of his prison to the other. Stone walls. Dirt in his lungs. No way out – except for a single trapdoor, a single window that did not promise freedom, but at least suggested it.

He tried to draw together his scattered memories. The city at night, which felt like a distant dream in the wake of whatever foul substances he'd been poisoned with. The wagon puller who had attacked him without hesitation. The voices, the fight with a man in mentor's robes.

Altair knew that he had been captured by an enemy. Whether or not the enemy bore any true connection to his own Brotherhood was irrelevant.

The trapdoor swung open, and a European boy in white robes dropped to stand above him.

"At last," the boy said in English, stooping to pick a flask from a corner Altair couldn't see. Uncapping it, he brought it to Altair's face. As reflexively as breathing, he grit his teeth and turned away.

"The master said I should make you drink when you woke."

Altair eyed the robes. They seemed cut and re-sewn to resemble an Assassin's attire, but the material was quilted in the style of a crusader's surcoat. The work was makeshift at best.

The boy grabbed Altair around his jaw. He wrenched free.

"Place another hand on me and I'll snap off your thumb." If the boy didn't know Arabic, he might soon learn the meaning of one particular sentence. The boy's thin brows drew together, and he sneered as he emptied the flask over the floor. Only water, it seemed.

"Master," the boy called, climbing away through the trapdoor. "He's woken."

Altair maintained his glare on the exit from the moment the boy left to the moment his "master" arrived. Black eyes peered down at him, as unsettlingly foreign as he remembered from their frenzied altercation some hours before.

The stranger approached him.

"Listen carefully, student. You will learn something now," he said. "Now that you cannot keep yourself from learning it."

"Let me go. I am not your student, and you are no master."

The stranger chuckled. Altair kicked involuntarily against one of his binds.

"You are ignorant, but I will be patient. I shall concede that I was once a servant like you. Al Mualim plucked me from the chaos of the battle that orphaned me, and I became his willing tool, accomplishing by night the tasks he deemed too dangerous for even his disciples. But through my servitude, I surpassed him in my understanding of the deadly arts."

Had Al Mualim ever spoken of this man? Of anything that might lend truth to his wild story? Altair recalled nothing. So this stranger's every word was a lie.

"I surpassed the 'great' Al Mualim by learning the value of life," he continued. "By watching men both criminal and innocent cling so fearfully to it every night. Darkness allowed me the chance to play with target's lives in secrecy. I would torment and dispose of them even as their own families slept soundly a room away. I concocted poisons that made them dance like puppets, ones that stole their breath and turned them blue, ones that rendered them motionless as statues but for the movement of their eyes…all of these, I use with greater skill than any disciple has used a blade. Have you not fallen to them yourself, Assassin?"

Altair followed the stranger's gaze to the cut on his forearm. Every injury that had been dealt to him since his defeat outside Acre had involved toxins that robbed him of his senses. He clenched his fist, wishing for anything but the metal band that held it down.

"William was right to have confronted you. He behaved just as I taught him." Another chuckle. "Al Mualim obsessed over the perfect placement of a hidden blade. No great accuracy is needed when my poisons are applied. All that William had to do was turn and strike - " A jab to the wound on his chest. "And now we have you. The old master's favorite."

"So what will you do with me?" Altair glared at the ceiling, avoiding the black eyes that sought his attention.

"I have considered that question for some time now. Your convulsions were amusing – I almost let the poison take you before even revealing who we are. But I would enjoy _testing_ William against you once more."

Altair squirmed. His mouth was dry, and every muscle in his chest had been pulled tight like laced strings to keep his breath controlled. Failure on his part may have brought him here, but he refused to lose the stoicism that a lifetime in the Brotherhood had taught.

"Assassinating a target who blindly and willingly follows you into seclusion is far too simple for him," the stranger explained, grinning. "Now that you are aware of the threat – and mostly recovered, I would hope – you may present a proper challenge for him."

Against every instinct he possessed, Altair met eyes with the stranger. He searched for something familiar, something shared by the assassins within Al Mualim's control. He could not be certain if this familiarity existed, only that he almost hoped to see it. If the stranger's ridiculous story was true…at least that meant he was more than a mad sadist.

Altair saw nothing but red.

"I will let you loose within the fortress tonight," the madman said. "And I will observe as young William stalks you, and strips the life from you with his poisons."

Author's Notes:

-lots of torture tropes in this chapter, i'm aware. but making this fic focused on gore or so-called "torture porn" is not the goal. my plan is that this is all a setup for a more dynamic narrative, but you be the judge!

-william is supposed to be about 15-17. hopefully that was clear enough through description

is the villain telling the truth? what's going to happen during this "challenge?" comment with any speculation you have. i would appreciate reading your thoughts


	3. Chapter 3

Altair kept his neck straight, his head inclined. Any lower and the poisoned dagger at his throat might break his skin.

The madman had pulled him upstairs and through a maze of suffocating corridors, some which dripped water and mud, all which lacked any lighting beyond a few struggling lanterns. The place could easily be connected to some "fortress," but every hall and corner of it sat silent and empty, some caved in and others stinking of rot. Altair wondered if any end to these catacombs existed, or if they burrowed ceaselessly down into an underworld that reeked from mold and filth.

"So this is your great stronghold?" He taunted.

"For now," his captor answered, pushing him along through a black puddle and over the splintered remains of an upturned barrel.

"You know nothing of our Order, if you believe this blighted place worthy-"

The madman's knife pressed threateningly closer. Altair abandoned his words.

"You should focus. The more you remember of this place, the better chances you might have as William searches for you."

Altair was mercifully directed to a staircase leading upward. Each step took surprising effort; the past day's drugging – coupled with lack of water and abundance of foul air – had left his senses dulled and his muscles slow. At last the stairs ended, and he stepped into the pale moonlight and fresh air of a courtyard. He opened his mouth at the sight of open sky as if to drink it.

Stone walls surrounded him. Altair traced the surfaces with his eyes, seeking a path, some series of footholds that he might scale to his freedom. Windows, reinforcements, jutting bits of stone – all held pieces of a promise that escape was possible, but only if he could manage to climb unseen, away from the threat of a poison knife. For now, the opportunity was impossible to explore, but he was determined to seek it soon.

A figure appeared at the edge of the roof. Tall, thin, pale: William.

"Are you prepared for your test?" The madman called.

"Yes, master."

Altair was thrown forward, stumbling onto one knee and then off it again in the middle of the courtyard. He regretted that William's "master" hadn't seen fit to return his armor or weapons; unhooded under the moonlight, he felt completely vulnerable – an _animal_, to be killed for sport.

"Send him to God!"

Altair could almost hear his mentor in that voice. _Go to God_, Al Mualim had instructed, as Altair flung himself downward to the horror of every Templar in view. The inversion to his command sent a fresh wave of unease through him.

William drew a knife. Altair scrambled for the first ledge, boots finding stone and pushing _up_. A flash of movement from William, and Altair flattened himself against the courtyard wall, feeling the rush of air that warned a near miss. He lunged higher, catching the splintered frame where a lamp had been hung, then a windowsill. He glanced back at William, who had just let a second knife fly. The path would impale his hand.

Altair let go before he could waste time thinking further. The knife – coated with a sinister gray powder – bounced off unoccupied stone in place of his flesh, but he lacked the grip to keep himself anchored. Plummeting backwards, the ground met him with cold, unyielding force.

Another flash. Altair spun to his feet as a third knife clattered next to him. He stopped looking back, running only for an open doorway. Not an escape, but cover. Mercy.

He ducked inside to find more steps, leading only down. Cursing his luck, he rushed over the stones until they gave way to a muddy corridor, then turned at random, seeking a place to hide. A dim light flickered from somewhere further down, and Altair sought it, stumbling through shin-high water and ducking under half-collapsed beams. As the light became stronger, so did his hopes.

Turning one last crumbled corner, he came face to face with William. The boy drew a sword and struck out in one fluid motion. Altair dodged backward into the wall behind him, reaching for weapons he didn't have. William raised the sword, deftly avoiding the confines of the hallway, and struck again. Altair had no room to evade it, and so he seized a piece of wooden beam to deflect the blow. Altair kicked, sprawling the thin boy flat on his stomach with a splash. Before William had any chance to right himself, Altair sprang over him and continued his pursuit of the light around the corner.

There! An opening in the stones, where they crumbled inward to bare the light of the moon and the faint outline of cypress trees. Altair dashed through the exit, but as he left looking upward, he failed to note the steep terrain beneath his feet. He tripped, found nothing to catch himself, and tumbled down a merciless cliffside of branch and rock. He felt the cliff give way to a sheer drop, felt nothing beneath him for one long, disorienting moment – hoped for water at the end of the drop, for _something_ that would cushion such a treacherous fall – and watched his outstretched arm meet solid stone with a gruesome _crack_.

Lying on flat ground proved to be no comfort, as the pain of a shattered elbow hit him with brutal intensity. Instinct urged Altair to scream, but the madman or his student might hear him. He grimaced open-mouthed against his uninjured arm, groaning loudly but refusing to endanger himself any further. Gradually, as the pain dulled from white hot spears to only spears, he sat himself up and observed where he'd landed.

An old battlefield, it appeared. Broken, charred trees, and scores of bodies, mostly skeletonized, littered the landscape. It seemed the scene had been left behind for long enough that the smell of waste and rot had fortunately dissipated. Altair looked up at the cliff, which stretched impossibly high above the wreckage; he hadn't realized that he'd tumbled and fallen so far. At least William couldn't possibly follow him down.

At the cliff's top loomed the fortress. Cold, crumbling – just as much a corpse as the unlucky figures that sprawled between the trees. The madman and lackey must have settled there in the wake of the crusaders' war.

Altair attempted to stand. His legs were battered, scraped raw, and one ankle felt more than a bit twisted, but he managed anyway. A grinding sensation in his elbow made his breath hitch, and he squinted to keep from blacking out. Clutching the damaged arm to his side, he walked through the field of death, searching for whatever refuge he could find.


	4. Chapter 4

Cold winds raced between the trees and hissed in his ear. Altair trudged forward, where the battlefield finally gave way to a riverbank. Bones stood pale beneath the gently flowing waters. He drank anyway, hoping to stop his throat from drying further with every breath.

As the wind grew stronger, he suppressed a shiver. Any unnecessary movement would send another burst of pain through his arm. He had considered trying to splint it with a branch, but the threat of blacking out in the process had discouraged him. If William was going to track him down, he wanted to at least see it coming.

Crossing the river, Altair looked back at the fortress – only a distant speck in the night. He resolved to keep moving; he would not be satisfied until it was gone completely from his sight.

The trees on the other side were dense. Through them, Altair found a thin trail, stamped with hoof-prints. Following it seemed like the best course of action, on the chance it might lead him back to Acre, and to the safety of the bureau.

The river had soaked what little clothing he wore, and _not_ shivering had become impossible. His arm burned, and he paused to kneel on the trail, holding it still. Sharp, biting pressure had begun to build within the destroyed joint, where veins had broken and spilled their contents beneath his skin. Nausea crept up in him. Gritting his teeth against both pain and the urge to retch, he looked in every direction for signs of a pursuer. The woods were still – his only relief – although he almost hoped to the hear the approach of hoofbeats. Some chance might exist that a crusader scout or a knight would take some marginal pity on him, enough to bring him along to Acre. His lack of Assassin's robes would paint him as nothing more than an unfortunate citizen, although his face and accent alone might still brand him "Saracen" and earn him a swift beheading.

Any passerby could prove more trouble than not. Altair forced himself to move a few paces off the trail, until he could follow it without being clearly seen from it.

As he continued, he stumbled upon a cave. It was nestled further into the forest and away from the path, and the opening looked just wide enough to crawl through. He ducked inside, listening for any creatures that might have made it their home. No noise; only a relief from the rushing wind. The cave was small, but effective for hiding away.

Altair could feel himself warming up, and his clothes finally began to dry, but the pressure in his arm was only worsening. He spied a sharp fragment of stone on the cave floor, and held it up, considering whether he should drain the injured joint. Pressing the sharp edge experimentally against his elbow made him dizzy with unease. He pressed further anyway, and felt a thin stream of blood race down his arm. While his nerves still danced with agony, the excruciating pressure, at least, had gone away.

Altair chucked the stone aside – but as he did, he heard _two_ impacts instead of one. One from the stone, and one that sounded much more like a footstep from outside. He flattened himself against the cave, suddenly grateful that his white robes had been taken from him. While the uniform was essential for blending in the city, here he was better suited without it.

More footsteps, closer every time. Altair tried to form a plan. The steps passed right above him, and then a pair of feet dropped onto the ground just in front of the cave. Thin legs, white robes. So William had tracked him all this way. How?

The boy stepped forward, slightly away from the cave. Altair decided not to wait until his enemy had any chance to see him. Now was the best opportunity he would have. He burst out of the cave and sent his boot crashing against William's back. The boy turned as he fell and landed face up, reaching for his sword. Altair lunged down onto him and began grappling for control of the weapon. If the blade so much as grazed him, he knew that the poison would take hold of him, that all of his struggling would have meant nothing.

William thrashed, striking Altair's injured arm in the process. Instinct took over and Altair drew away from the pain, allowing his enemy to draw the sword and scramble up to his feet again. William raised the sword. No time to dodge away properly.

Altair acted on the very next thing that came to mind. He ducked under the sweeping blow and lunged forward, tackling the boy and slamming him back down. William attempted to roll away, cursing with every harsh breath, and Altair rolled with him, clawing for the sword handle. At last he jerked it away and stumbled upright. William was already halfway on his feet and turning to run. Altair swung for him.

In the last instant before it would be too late, he turned the blade so that the flat of it hit the boy across his shoulders, and sent him face first into the dirt. Another sweep, again with the flat side, struck William's tailbone with enough force to bruise for weeks. By now his cursing had devolved into incoherent blubbers.

Altair threw the sword aside; it lodged itself in a tree trunk. He gave the boy one last sharp kick to the ribs, then sat down across his back, seizing him by his scraggly, pale hair.

William's pleas were both messy and immediate.

"Don't kill me!" He cried. "The master made me do this, he _made_ me! Said I was nothing if I didn't train to become his disciple! And what else could I do but follow him? Ever since the battle, I…"

The boy paused. Altair raised a brow, curious to see him go on.

"I was a runaway!" William sobbed. "A deserter! And the master said I could redeem myself through the Creed, become a new man…but I didn't want to do this!"

"Your master," Altair said, exercising what little English he knew. "Tell him you failed. Or better – you, and I, bring him death. Together."

Author's Notes:

\- i love writing enemies/villains that turn out to be total cowards, it's just a thing of mine

\- do you believe that william was a relative innocent or not? just curious what my readers think of the situation

\- also, medieval medicine Bad. don't try to slice open your arm with a dirty rock at home pls and thanks


	5. Chapter 5

"He said he would wait for me," William explained. "At the north entrance to Acre."

Altair followed William down the trail, sword in hand, prodding him occasionally. He had already detoured back to the river in order to wash all of William's weapons clean. So long as they were in a true Assassin's possession, they would not be tainted with poison. William was left empty-handed. As he _should_ be, Altair thought. The child was lucky that after all his offenses, Altair had bothered to spare his life. Cutting it short at such an age seemed wrong, even if it might have been deserved.

"Why at Acre?"

"The master and I cart corpses out of the city. That way we travel unbothered through all the districts. And it's how we smuggle out poisoned targets."

"You say everything," Altair remarked, "When you know you have lost."

William looked back at him over his shoulder, his young face red with shame.

"I'd rather not die," he protested. "Is that so terrible? It's the reason I got into this damned mess. First I'm expected to go to war and get myself killed in a place I don't know, against people I've got nothing to do with. Then I run away, only for the same thing to happen again."

"You followed me well enough."

"For my own survival! What, d'you think the master would allow me to stay at the fortress and kick up my feet when he told me he wants your head on a bloody pike? Then it'd just be my own head!"

Suddenly, the boy in front of Altair didn't seem so pathetic. The Assassin thought on his own situation. _Nine lives in exchange for mine._ The only difference between himself and William, he supposed, was their ability.

Perhaps loyalty, too, he thought with a smirk.

"For a hunter – you are not terrible. Small animals, maybe. Anything larger, you would track it, then you would run away."

From the embarrassed look on the boy's face, it seemed that not too much had been lost in translation.

They continued downhill through the trees. The horizon changed from rich, deep blue to pale yellow as dawn arrived. Beams of light began to flicker between the branches overhead.

At one point William looked back, and his eyes bulged out.

"Your arm," he said. "It's caked in blood."

Altair didn't look at it. He still didn't trust taking his eyes off the boy, and even if he did, his arm felt painful enough _without_ having to witness the damage; ever since the adrenaline from their fight had worn off, fresh, excruciating jabs had dogged his every step.

"I cut it. To mend."

"But some of it's fresh. You shouldn't lose that much." William turned and took a step towards him. Altair raised his sword to the boy's chest, and he raised his hands.

"Sorry," William said. "But I've got something to stitch it. I could help you, really."

Some few moments later, Altair found himself sitting on a tree stump, while his former enemy sewed his arm back together. Until William pierced himself with the needle first, Altair hadn't trusted him to approach with it – but the boy had obliged, and proved his good intentions.

The stitches had turned out to be necessary. One quick glance at his elbow proved that the cut had split dangerously wide as a result of his last fight; the blood loss was not immediately life-threatening, but not safe either. Even if the boy was only trying to ingratiate himself – in the wake of everything he'd done – his assistance was still proving valuable.

"It certainly looks broken," William remarked. "That I can't help with. What will you do?"

"They will help me at Masyaf." He could picture it already – how long and miserable the entire setting process would be – and just hoped that Malik might not be around to mention how much _stronger_ he was when it had been _his_ arm in the surgeon's grasp….

He winced as the needle broke through his skin again, and could feel his heart racing. He would have to do better than this.

"Sorry," William muttered. "I know you wouldn't have gone and busted your arm, if not for me."

Altair cocked his head, neither a nod nor a shake. He thought back on his first encounter with the boy. Curiosity had struck him at the wrong time, and William had not hesitated for an instant before attacking him.

"Wish I hadn't done it." William seemed to read the lingering animosity between them and know exactly what Altair was remembering. "The master had told me that any men in robes like yours were the greatest danger to us. To strike first before they had any chance to. But I hadn't met one of you until then."

Another stitch. Altair's free hand covered his mouth. At least this time he kept silent.

"It's almost done," William said.

"Good. Your master should not wait long to die."

The boy nodded fervently. "Of course. And he is not my master any longer. Following him was foolish – I did it only out of fear."

_As you do this for the same reason,_ Altair thought.

One last stitch. He felt the string pull through his skin and tighten. William bit off the end and proceeded to tie it.

"I do hope it helps," the boy said. "I've been told that wounds rot easier the longer they stay open. Don't know if that's true."

Altair inspected the stitches, careful not to bend his arm. The wound was still raw and bleeding, but neatly tied together. It would begin healing soon. He stood up and retrieved his sword, then continued along the trail. William followed after him.

"With no master," Altair asked. "What then?"

"No idea. The knights will punish me for deserting. The Saracens would sooner take my head off than listen to a word I say. But I suppose being an exile won't be so terrible as killing people in dungeons."

"We will see. Walk fast."

They continued around a bend in the trail, and now the expanse of Acre was just visible against the morning horizon.

Author's Notes:

-all of the convos that took place in this chapter were in english, hopefully that came across, idk


End file.
